


It's You

by minagaine



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Feels, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Post The Great Game, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2013-11-17
Packaged: 2018-01-01 20:07:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1048039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minagaine/pseuds/minagaine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emotions ride high after Moriarty's great game with Sherlock Holmes, during which Sherlock and John figured out they mean more to each other than they knew. Their first time, which is Sherlock's first time ever and John's first time with another man, ensues when they get home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's You

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [andromeda0477](http://andromeda0477.tumblr.com/) and [iamshurlocked](http://iamshurlocked.tumblr.com/) (both on Tumblr/AO3) for being lovely human beings and betas! xox
> 
>  
> 
> [Follow me on Tumblr!](http://wholockedslytherinprefect.tumblr.com/)

John had almost died. Nevermind that Sherlock had, too, but JOHN had almost DIED. That utterly brilliant arsehole, Moriarty, had almost cost Sherlock the most important person in his entire life. Sure, Sherlock had enjoyed the game while it had to do with other, insignificant people. People whom John had gotten so upset about Sherlock’s indifference to, in fact. That all changed when he saw John walk around the corner with a fucking bomb strapped to his chest.

How could Moriarty have known John’s importance in Sherlock’s life while Sherlock himself was only in the nascent stages of understanding? Perhaps he hadn’t actually known, but had only hedged a guess. They all knew now though, didn’t they? Not only did they know that Sherlock loved John, but that John, apparently, loved Sherlock in return. Or, at least, so Sherlock was finally beginning to realize. His deductions where John was concerned had been a bit slower going than Sherlock’s normal brilliance. However, this deduction would be difficult to miss even when his mind was muddled with thoughts of John’s sweet voice in his ear, John’s scent floating down the hallway before he walks into the flat, John’s cheerful smile playing across his lips and tugging the corner of Sherlock’s mouth upwards in an almost ineffable response.

Moreover, it was difficult to miss in the actual situation while Sherlock was rapidly being assaulted with thoughts of a life suddenly without John in it, of walking around the flat talking to John only to remember that he wasn’t actually there, of John being blown to bits in front of his very eyes. When John wrapped his arms around Moriarty and threatened to take the spider down with him to save Sherlock’s life, awareness snapped into place that this was no act of general heroics or bravery for John. Moriarty, of course, didn’t miss a beat: “You’ve rather shown your hand there, Dr. Watson.”

Oh the truths that came to light during the great game Moriarty played – a silver lining around an otherwise unfathomably dark cloud!

Sherlock twists the knob to turn off the steaming hot water of his shower. He steps out of the shower and notices that the air is a few degrees cooler than it should have been and there is a bit less fog on the mirror than he’d expected, as well. The door is cracked just slightly, but he remembers that it had clicked soundly before he’d disrobed for his shower. John. John must have opened the door, but why? He had left in a hurry only a moment before, because Sherlock could smell the barest hint of cologne that John had left in his wake. Funny, that: thinking of John as having a wake of any type, as he is such a still person. A calm, peaceful demeanor to offset Sherlock’s own sporadic bursts of neurosis and ennui. But then, there is always something just underneath – an inner layer of John that’s all turmoil and nervous energy and _DANGER_. It’s there, and so Sherlock admires the strength John must possess to keep that under lock and key until it’s needed.

Increasingly, Sherlock’s bouts of inattention to the rest of the world are devoted to thinking about John. Analyzing John’s actions, his words. Deducing John’s next move before he makes it. Daydreaming about John…and Sherlock. John and Sherlock. “Hmm,” he says aloud, as he swings his robe across his back and settles it over his shoulders, wrapping it loosely at the waist. He walks into the living room directly and finds John sitting quietly in his chair. Tea. Lost in thought. A bit on edge. Fresh from his own shower. Quietly: “John.” And he looks up immediately, a peculiar look in his blue eyes. “I thought…” John begins, stops and shakes his head ever so slightly, breaking eye contact with Sherlock momentarily before continuing, “I thought I was going to die. Maybe that we both were, and I just…it’s fine…because we…we were together. We would have been together. In the end.” John nods succinctly, clearly done speaking. He’s certainly not a man of many words, but Sherlock understands his meaning because they are the right ones. He meets John’s eyes evenly and feels his chest pull a little. What’s that? It isn’t normal. It’s new; it’s John.

Sherlock walks over to the chair, but is not sure what to do next. This is new, too, this vacillation. He isn’t even sure how to process what he is feeling right now, why he wants to feel close to John. Is he actually craving physical touch? It’s something he has had so little of in his adult life that he doesn’t know what to make of it – just knows that it is necessary and reserved only for John. John himself looks much more assured than Sherlock, which is at least somewhat expected based on how steadfast and enduring he knows his flatmate to be.

In that infinite time spanning just moments, in the short space between them spanning miles of uncharted territory, Sherlock and John witness the big bang that will create their world anew.

John grips Sherlock tightly about the waist and pushes on him slightly as he stands up. The force of John’s hands solidly on his hips, as much as the intensity of John’s gaze, causes Sherlock to step back once, twice, as he gazes down into John’s unfathomable blue eyes. The sudden movement upsets John’s tea cup, but neither of them breaks eye contact as it shatters on the sitting room floor. Sherlock is too busy drinking in the new sensation of John’s fingers warm and pressing against his hips with only the thin, silky fabric of his dressing gown keeping them from real skin to skin contact. In that moment, Sherlock decides he wants more. He wants it more than he recalls wanting anything in recent years, and certainly more than he’s ever wanted anybody besides John to touch him. His hands twitch at his sides, ready to take some action, but unsure of what action that should be.

John – reliable, dependable John – takes action instead. He has always been one of the only people who could actually surprise Sherlock occasionally, and this is one of those occasions. Keeping his eyes locked on Sherlock’s and his hands in the same lovely position at Sherlock’s hips, John begins to walk forward, guiding Sherlock back, back, back until his calves bump against the sofa and he flops gracelessly down as John releases his grip. Instantaneously, Sherlock must suppress a whinge of protest at being released. Now that he has felt John’s touch, however briefly, he feels he will need it constantly. Though they’ve lived together for quite some time before now, they had rarely had cause to touch. He’d touched John and been touched by John more today than ever between John’s hands on Sherlock’s hips and Sherlock’s earlier ripping off of John’s coat necessitated by the bomb rigged into it. But now, John has stopped in front of Sherlock, looking for all the world confused at how they’d gotten there even though it had been at his propelling force, and Sherlock wants nothing more than to sweep John into his lap, so that is exactly what he does. John’s surprise is evident on his face as Sherlock reaches up with both arms, wraps them around John’s waist, and gently pulls the other man towards him and down so that John is straddling the hips that he’d been holding just moments ago.

  
The look in John’s wide eyes says this may be too much, too soon – especially considering that Sherlock is wearing next to nothing. However, Sherlock does not want to relent. He wants to savor the feeling of John’s body against him. It is something that Sherlock never really thought about before he’d almost lost John, but now Sherlock wonders how they both could have been so oblivious. He takes in John’s features now, as they are face to face. Eyes still wide, slightly panicked, mouth parted just barely, breath coming quickly as though they’ve just finished a chase through the streets of London. Scanning downward, Sherlock continues his deduction – Adam’s apple bobbing as John swallows, arm muscles taut as they push against the back of the sofa, a slight tremor through them as if John were cold or – oh! Aroused. Sherlock feels a slight twinge of guilt. He hadn’t meant for it to go in this direction, not really, and not so soon, because he does not know what to do with it. He’s still relishing the feeling of John’s thighs around his hips, however, and so he doesn’t let him go even as he feels John’s growing erection between them. It’s quite obvious that John hasn’t got any pants on beneath his pyjama bottoms. This is a whole new type of warmth for Sherlock to experience, and it is surprisingly delightful.

John must have seen something in Sherlock’s face to calm his panic, because his features smooth out and his lips quirk up just a bit at the ends. “This is okay; it’s good,” John says, and Sherlock isn’t sure if he is telling him or asking him or reassuring himself. Then, he begins to move.

John’s hands slide from the back of the couch down to Sherlock’s shoulders, and Sherlock feels such unbearably delightful warmth radiating from John’s fingers again that he must remove the last barrier and feel it directly on his skin. Sherlock takes his left hand from John’s back and places it on John’s right hand, nudging him to open the neckline of the silk robe. John complies readily. He doesn’t stop, won’t stop, can’t stop himself. So he places both hands flat at the center of Sherlock’s smooth chest, then slides both outwards, and the blue silk falls away to expose pure alabaster in the flat’s dim light. “Sher,” John whispers as he leans forward ever so slightly. Sherlock meets John’s eyes with a steady gaze and is surprised to note that he looks as if he is under the influence of some drug. What could cause such a reaction? Certainly not just the sight of Sherlock’s skin. But it must be that. That and their…proximity. The fact that they are both touching one another in ways that they’d not known they could or should until today – until just now. Sherlock thinks about the ways in which they are connected bodily at this moment: John’s hands now curled around Sherlock’s biceps, Sherlock’s arms draped back around John’s waist, John’s thighs firmly against Sherlock’s hips, and finally, at long last, Sherlock’s own erection beginning to press against John’s through their not quite clothing.

He can’t even remember the last time he’d had an erection and bothered to actually do something about it. He had meant it when he’d told John he considered himself married to the work. There had been no time for sex when there were crimes to solve and experiments to conduct. There’d been no time for sentiment, for friends. No time even for tea most days. But, then John had come around and he became busier than ever, in actuality. John and that blog of his drumming up business. Somehow, amidst the influx of cases and interesting experiments, there was suddenly time for tea. With John. Time for friendship, sentiment. John again. And now time for sex. John. It always comes back to him.

Once more: “Sher.” And, once more it comes back to John. That drugged look has done something to Sherlock. He wonders if his own eyes look like that, but John doesn’t give him time to become lost in thought again. Instead, John drives Sherlock’s shoulders hard into the sofa cushions and slams into Sherlock so that there is no more space between their bodies. No space between their hips. No space between their stomachs. No space between their chests. No space between their lips and suddenly Sherlock is not just gasping for air, but pulling it from John’s mouth as if he’s been underwater for a thousand days and nights in need of breath. He breathes him in: the scent of clean laundry and showered skin and fresh cologne and JOHN. He tastes him and relishes the sweetness of the tea still lingering on John’s tongue and lips. Paired with the hard and almost desperate press of their kiss, it is intoxicating. Sherlock is enveloped by John and engulfed in a firestorm of new sensations; they are better than any he’d gotten off the cocaine he used to favor. It is too much and not enough all at once, and Sherlock isn’t sure he can handle anymore or ever let John go when John suddenly pulls away from their kiss, bringing Sherlock’s moan of protest with him.

“John,” Sherlock says, his voice a deep, throaty rumble, “don’t stop. Why are you stopping?” John’s reply touches Sherlock and he feels that strange little tug in his chest again, only it feels a little familiar now. “When you asked me the second day we met what I would say if I were about to die, it was ‘Please, God, let me live.’ Today at the pool when I thought I was going to die again, I didn’t think that. It’s changed, Sherlock. It’s all changed. It’s you now.” Sherlock knows that it’s boring and predictable, hates that it is, but he realizes that his dying thought is the same: _Please, let John live._ Sentiment. That pull in his chest. And John. “It’s you,” Sherlock announces with finality and a rare smile playing across his lips as he pulls John roughly against him once more.

Emotions either quickly forgotten or fueling the fire, Sherlock begins bucking his hips in rhythm with John’s movements. With each thrust the sleek fabric of Sherlock’s robe falls away until his pale length is sliding against the one remaining barrier between his skin and John’s. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of John’s pyjama bottoms and John gasps into Sherlock’s mouth. John raises up on his knees enough for Sherlock to slide the elastic down past his hips, allowing John’s prick to spill forth beautifully. Sherlock continues tugging John’s bottoms off as John lifts each knee off the sofa in succession. Sherlock observes his flatmate in this elevated position: blonde hair a bit tousled, eyes fever bright, lips a rich pink color, chest heaving, abdominal muscles tight beneath a bit of a cushion, cock very hard and beading at the tip. The sight brings another moan to Sherlock’s lips, as do John’s fumbling hands at the belt of his robe, pulling at the knot and then spreading the robe out against the cushions and away from Sherlock’s skin. A twitch of John’s prick is the impetus for Sherlock to wrap his long fingers about John’s hips and lower him back into his lap.

The feeling of John’s erection gliding, smooth and unencumbered, against Sherlock’s drives all thought out of his head. It’s all irrelevant as Sherlock’s world narrows to Dr. John H. Watson in this moment. Even today’s events are gone as he keeps his hands on John’s hips, encouraging their rhythm and bucking his hips in time. It is as intricate as any of his compositions, as intriguing as the best locked room murder, as addictive as any drug. And it is his.


End file.
